If You're Hoping I'll Return
by Darthishtar
Summary: Hermione, after the end of Deathly Hallows, is determined to do anything to reunite with her family. There are just a few snags to overcome in that process.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: In order to lend a certain level of credibility to this story, I enlisted the help of my friend Rebecca. She did everything from help me research student visas to finding maps of the Melbourne CBD for me. My thanks go out to her for all her help. The title is from "Homeward Bound":_

"_If you find it's me you're missing_

_If you're hoping I'll return_

_To your thoughts I'll soon be listening_

_In the road, I'll stop and turn."_

_FOR RENT. Amiable couple seeks a sub-letter to lease their au pair suite. Private bath and entry, functional kitchen, one bedroom and a small sitting room. Lovely house in Melbourne. Rent negotiable. Contact Wendell or Monica for details at (03) 9624 4263._

The paper wasn't in the best condition. After all, she had been rifling through the classifieds, circling and eliminating options for some time. If her coffee mug had not stuck to that particular part of the page, she might have overlooked the listing altogether. Instead, she had unglued her mug from the offending newsprint and scowled at the flat listing that was partially obscured by a brown ring.

And just like that, seven hours of bureaucratic nonsense and trying her best not to threaten the Muggle housing administration had resulted in success. It had just been completely unintentional. At least, she hoped that these were the people she had come all the way to Australia to find.

Her hand reached into her beaded purse, rummaging around lazily as she took another long drag on the unnecessarily strong brew that the waitress had dumped into her mug on the last pass. Finally, her groping hand located her cellular phone and she extracted it, shaking off the bra that always seemed to wrap itself around any loose object in there before slapping the phone on the counter.

She dialed quickly, and then wedged it between her shoulder and ear as she counted out the money for the tab and tip. She didn't notice the other party had answered until the second time the woman spoke.

"Hello?"

She had heard that tone a thousand times and had heard it in her dreams more often than not, but it seemed surreal nonetheless. It was a voice that she had prepared herself never to hear again.

"Mu…"

She stammered over the word that she could not possibly utter just yet and took a deep breath to calm herself.

"Monica?" she greeted.

"That's right," the woman said. "Who is this?"

"I saw your advertisement for a flat to rent?" Hermione explained. "Is it still available?"

The laugh was familiar and absolutely natural. "Of course, miss," Monica said genially. "We just placed that advert yesterday."

"Lucky me," she murmured, getting to her feet so she could get her things together. "May I come by and see it sometime?"

"Any time you'd like," Monica assured her. "I just need to put the little one down for her afternoon nap, but she's a fairly sound sleeper these days."

Her stomach dropped to somewhere around her ankles and it became immediately difficult to breathe, much less speak a coherent sentence. Her right hand came up to cover her eyes, but nothing else came. It was as if she had expected something of this sort, but had not expected to have it confirmed.

"You there, miss?" Monica asked solicitously.

"I am," she blurted. "If you'll give me your address, I can be there as soon as possible."

"Lovely," Monica responded more cheerfully. "Do you have a pen handy?"

She scribbled down the address, noting that it was on the other side of the city. It was mid-afternoon, so traffic shouldn't be too bad…

"I'm very near there," she lied. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

A blast of warm air hit her the moment she left HQ's and she blinked against the sunlight, squinting at the landscape to get her bearings.

"Looking for something in particular?" a light voice asked.

She turned to find a young woman her own age, ambling along the same thoroughfare.

"Just the Dudley Street edge of Flagstaff Gardens," Hermione replied in kind. "I'm to meet a friend there."

"You'll want to head north, then," the girl replied. "It's not too far, I'm headed that way myself. Mind if I join you?"

In fact, she did. After all, she had no real desire to have company when she got to the Apparation point, but it was better to agree to company then spend her time wandering around Melbourne's Central Business District in search of an inconspicuous place to wink out of existence.

"Not at all," she said.

They walked for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the mid-winter air. Williams Street cut a fairly straight path through the gardens, but there was a particular stand of trees that she had favored the day before. Hopefully, none of the businessmen who had been picnicking there the day before would be there at this time of day.

"On holiday or a newcomer?"

She had allowed her mind to wander for just a moment and it barely registered the question. Instead of responding properly, she let out a vaguely dotty, "Hmmm?"

"Are you on holis here or intending to stay a while?" her travelling companion reiterated. "You're definitely not from around here."

"Oh," she blurted, coloring slightly. "I'm starting a course in history at Melbourne University come September and have been looking for a decent flat to lease. That's where I'm headed."

"Great," the other said enthusiastically. "I'll be starting there as well. We might just see each other again."

"That would be nice," she granted cautiously. "Are you from here?"

"Born and raised in the suburbs," the other confirmed. "What made you come here?"

"I'm not sure," she confessed. "I'm hoping to find something here, but I'm not sure it's possible."

"Aha," the girl smirked. "Had your heart broken, did you?"

For the first time that day, she was able to smile. It felt slightly unnatural as if she'd forgotten how. "Not exactly."

"Well, I'm Rebecca," the girl introduced herself. "Let me give you my number in case you need a friendly face once you settle in."

The girl reminded her sharply of her mother, since both were the type to form quick friendships and give help without much hesitation. She extracted the same pad of paper where the address was scribbled and jotted down the numbers.

"And you are…"

"Oh, rats," she blurted, checking her watch. "I'm late. I'll ring you!"

Without further comment, she sprinted towards the thick cluster of trees that she had spotted. Fortunately, there was a clear space well out of sight of the people lounging on the green. She focused on the address, and then turned on the spot. Everything went black and there was a moment of intense pressure on every part of her body, but then a few moments later, it was over.

She landed, knees buckling slightly from the impact, at the bend of a street corner. Any casual observer would assume that she had just rounded the corner. Four houses east of that was the one she had been trying to envision ever since she had received word of the Wilkins' safe arrival in Australia.

It was a fairly nondescript house, red brick with a picket fence in front and a small fringe of flowers on the walkway and awnings over the front windows. The white lace curtains were drawn back, but it was difficult to see into the front room.

She pushed open the front gate, closing it behind her before she approached the house. The moment she reached the front porch, the front door creaked open and her legs and heart both stopped working properly.

"You must be..." Monica stopped, a puzzled expression on her face. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I got your name."

She had hoped that something in her appearance would jog the memory. After all, she had grudgingly purchased the blue button-down blouse and black trousers on this woman's recommendation. Her light brown hair, tamed into a ponytail, was pulled back severely from features that Monica should have recognized at first sight.

"Hermione," she said quietly. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Hermione had always been the sensible type, since her "hopelessly mundane" mind predisposed her to look at the world in a patently logical manner. It was not to say that she did not give in to her instinctively sensitive side at times, but she had trained herself to eliminate the more whimsical turns of fancy that her fellow primary school students favored.

Still, there had been a part of her that had hoped to see a flash of recognition in her mother's eyes at the moment that her firstborn stood before her. It was, perhaps, the same hope that had allowed her to follow Harry from the haven of Hogwarts into whatever danger lay beyond. She had hoped that the lengths to which she had gone, the danger that she had taken upon herself and the desperate madness that she had faced in the forest along the Cotswold Way would have been worth all of it in the end.

It was, of course, worth it. After all, it had ensured that Harry would be able to kill Voldemort. It had given her the chance to protect her family , when so many other families had been decimated by mere association with those fighting in the war.

Still, there was a blank friendliness in Miriam Granger's eyes that Hermione had always seen directed at complete strangers. It was the expression, Mum had said, that "lets them like me long enough for me to return the favor." That left a dull ache in her stomach that would be a long time in curing.

"Here we are," Mum was saying as they reached the back of the house. "It's not much, but it'll give you privacy when you want it and we've kept it fairly clean."

That was a bit of an understatement. The room was furnished simply with her familiar bed, the worn old writing desk from which she'd quilled many a letter to Harry or Ron and a single bookshelf that held all of her pre-Hogwarts favorites. Everything from her Grimm's Fairy Tales to the pencil cup on the corner of the desk was in its place, but clean was not the word for it. It appeared as though Miriam and John—Monica and Wendell or Mum and Dad—had set things in order and then closed it off as a shrine to something they could not identify.

"It's…"

_Lovely._

_Terrible._

_Mine._

_Not mine at all._

"Wonderful," she finished inadequately.

"The kitchen has new appliances," Mum added, sweeping further down the hall without a second glance at the remnants of Hermione's life, "and the loo has a full bath. I think you would be quite comfortable here."

"What do you and your husband do?" Hermione asked.

Mum flashed her a more genuine smile. "Wendell is a professor at the School of Dental Science and I…well, Lord knows I haven't had much time since Emilia came along."

It was the first time she had heard the name of the sister she might have never known. She had not even asked to see her, since it would have been a terribly strange thing for a perfect stranger to request.

The name, however, was the first suggestion that they had not forgotten everything. She had learned the story of _A Winter's Tale _as a child as others might learn the story of Cinderella simply because it featured a woman with her own name. She had named her lone doll Emilia for the trustworthy and beautiful maid who attended on her.

"And you?" Mum prompted. "I imagine you must have something of interest here to have come all the way from England."

"University," Hermione supplied. "I'll be starting at Melbourne University in September."

"I thought you seemed keen," Mum lauded as if she remembered that she should be a proud parent. "And your parents are supporting you?"

"No, ma'am," she said honestly. "I'm Commonwealth-supported."

"Well," Mum replied, "if you decide to take the flat, we'll have to have you tell us all about it."

"I'd like to," Hermione answered, "if that's all right."

"Certainly, love," Mum said, clapping her on the shoulder. "If you'd like, I'm sure Wendell would be willing to retrieve you and as many of your trappings as can fit in our car on his way home. Where are you staying?"

"The Radisson on Flagstaff Gardens," Hermione supplied. "Let me give you my number."

"I'll have him give you a call once he's getting close," Mum promised. "Shall we say to be ready at 6:00 so you'll be here in plenty of time for dinner?"

"Yes, thank you."

Without further comment and by common consensus, they returned to the front door via the sitting room.

"You're all right taking the Met?" Mum asked.

"Quite all right," Hermione insisted—there was no reason to mention that the Met was the hopelessly slow way to get about. "Tonight at six?"

"Right," Mum beamed. "Until then."

It wasn't until she reached the sidewalk once more that she realized that she had been shaking for the duration of the visit.

She barely remembered Apparating this time, but since there were no anti-Apparition wards on the Muggle hotel, she did so directly into her room. Fortunately, housekeeping had already done its rounds and there was no chance of her landing on top of an unsuspecting maid.

She kicked off her trainers immediately and pulled the hair tie free before setting her bag on the bed and extracting the contents. The first item was a set of luggage that was returned to its full size with a simple _Engorgio. _Her clothing came next, Banished to the open suitcases with a few flicks of the wand. Last of all, she removed a ham sandwich, a packet of crisps and a bottle of water before retrieving her phone once more.

There were few Muggle gadgets that Ron had agreed to, but once he had realized that Harry and Hermione would be using a communications method much more quick and sanitary than owls to communicate while they were on different continents, he had agreed to take a few lessons in phone usage from Harry.

Still, it was relatively early in the day in London. They would still be in the flat in Diagon Alley that they shared with George. Ron would be snoring loudly at the wall after drafting his report on the Quidditch League for the _Prophet. _Harry would be up, of course, since he had never quite broken the habit of rising with the sun even if he had crashed onto his mattress three hours before.

She had not had the time to call since arriving, but since Harry's 'graduation present' of a thousand Galleons had funded this trip, he and Ron had the right to know that those Galleons were being put to good use. She selected his number instead and waited patiently for the call to connect.

"Hermione," Harry greeted cheerfully. "I was hoping you'd call."

"You're missing me, then?" she teased.

"Well," he countered, "Ron hadn't heard from you since you left Heathrow and was half-convinced that you'd run afoul of some Australian Death Eaters."

There was a note of cautious humor in his voice, as there always was when they spoke of the war in casual conversation. She let him hear her laugh, though, and when he spoke again, his good mood seemed to have increased.

"I'd tell him myself that I'm fine if he weren't dreaming of the Quidditch World Cup," she reminded him.

"You're all right, then?" Harry prompted.

"I am," she promised. "I spent most of yesterday trying to locate my family, only to find that they needed a tenant in Melbourne today. Wendell will be retrieving me in about three hours."

There was a slight hesitation before he spoke again and she knew he had caught the meaning behind her use of the name Wendell.

"They didn't recognize you."

"Mum didn't," she confirmed. "I don't know if Dad will be the same, but I have the feeling I performed the charm too well for my own good."

He made a slightly choked noise as if he were trying to sympathize with her without mentioning that she _always_ did charms too well for her own good. A moment later, he let out a slight sigh.

"They'll remember," he insisted. "You're their daughter…"

"And they already have another," she informed him.

There was another stunned silence. She plunged on without waiting for a proper answer.

"I haven't seen them in a year," she continued, "and Emilia is nearly six months old. Mum must have already been pregnant when I did the charm and she kept asking for me to come home for a visit. She must have known and wanted to tell me through something more personal than owl post. Instead, when I went home, I spent a day as her daughter and then made her forget it all."

These were the words that she had been wanting to spill since the moment that her mother had mentioned "the little one," and the release of tension that accompanied soul-baring finally came. She had not meant to blurt out the sorry tale so early in the conversation, but Harry was well-accustomed to the sorts of small sadnesses that followed them all around.

"I'm sorry," he said genuinely, "but you did the right thing. Your Mum and Dad and Emilia are alive because of you. Just because it will take some time for them to remember that much does not make it any less true."

She abruptly felt a wave of homesickness, but was not sure to whom it was directed. "I hope so," she murmured.

"It hasn't been even one day yet," Harry insisted. "Give them, and yourself, some time."

Hermione's hand clenched briefly and then flattened on her thigh, releasing the tension that had been building in her shoulder. "Thank you," she said simply. "You'll give my love to Ron, won't you?"

"As long as you don't ask me to pass a kiss on," Harry rejoined with a laugh. "He watched the Cannons get flattened by Oliver Wood last night and could use some good cheer."

"Be sure and give it to him, then," she persisted. "Are you keeping well?"

"I am," he assured her. "McGonagall has been owling daily to find out when I'm sending in my lesson plans for the year, but I reckon she just misses me. She's always had a bit of a soft spot for me, after all."

"I think she'll have more of one once you prove one thing," Hermione postulated.

"That the Defense Against the Dark Arts post curse ended with Voldemort?" Harry guessed.

"Precisely," she confirmed. "It's the job you've been training for since you formed the DA and you will be an excellent Professor, but if you get murdered in the line of duty, don't come running to me."

It was the sort of macabre humor that they had developed to cope with the aftermath of tragedy. It was much easier to joke about death now that they were no longer expecting to meet it face to face, but it still took some getting used to.

"I won't," Harry swore humorlessly. "Besides, after surviving the Killing Curse twice, I doubt it would be easy to break the habit."

He had a point there, but it didn't keep her from worrying. She supposed it was a pattern that she would never quite outgrow.

"I'll let you get to work, then," she suggested. "I miss you both terribly."

"Me, too," Harry responded earnestly. "We'd like to see you come home to us, but I'd rather you found your way home first."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thank you all for your incredible support thus far. I really haven't written much in this fandom and am having way too much fun with this. A word to the wise: Read carefully. Otherwise, you'll mistake an Apparation point for Hermione's new career as a prostitute. ____ I'm going to update this as often as the muse strikes. Props for this chapter go to maps. which helped me find directions from Hermione's hotel to the house I found for the Grangers. Double props go to the Uni's website for the School of Historical Studies, as well as my roommate Kateydidnt for enduring some of my more asenine questions._

It was a few minutes before 5:00 when the front desk rang to say that she had a visitor. True to form, Dad expected everyone to be at least five minutes early for every scheduled meeting, so Hermione had already packed and planned to be ready by 4:55.

She had already reduced her luggage so that she could tuck the two suitcases and a rucksack into the pocket next to her pocket Sneakoscope, but the moment that she found herself alone in the lift, she extracted all three and Engorged them to a more normal size. The difficulty arose in the fact that she then had to lug them across the lobby of the hotel to where her father was standing rather nervously near the concierge desk.

For a moment, he seemed to recognize her. Of course, there could be only so many seventeen-year-olds trying to drag all their worldly possessions across a marble atrium and that probably meant that she was his quarry.

She nodded a greeting to him, and then returned the key to the clerk who had kindly allowed her to loiter a few hours past checkout. Without waiting for a response, she turned to the tall man from whom she had inherited her hair color and lithe build.

"Hermione, I presume?" he asked immediately.

"Hermione Granger," she confirmed, extending a hand once she had extracted it from the handle of her larger valise.

"Wendell Wilkins," Dad introduced himself, shaking her hand.

He glanced rather skeptically at her scarcity of luggage, but in typical fashion, he just arched one dark eyebrow. "Just these, then?"

"I like to travel light," she lied—there was no need to mention the four-person tent, functional camp stove and collapsible bicycle that could be extracted with little difficulty from her beaded clutch.

"Good girl, then," he laughed. "Why don't I help you with these…"

The car was the same model of Citroen hatchback that he had favored in London, but a dark-blue color. Still, it was something almost as familiar as the man sitting next to her and she settled in as comfortably as if she had just boarded the Hogwarts Express on a September morning.

"Not to worry," Dad said cheerfully. "We'll have you home in no time."

Of course. The house on Holden Street that she had visited earlier that day was a mere six kilometers from the hotel, but he had no way of knowing that the fifteen-minute drive was an eternity compared to her usual mode of travel.

"I hope you're not some sort of vegetarian," Dad commented conversationally. "Monica's making a roast and even an unhealthy torte for afters to welcome you to the 'family.' She said you looked underfed for your age."

There was no first-conversation way of explaining what a war did to appetite, much less the constant need to be on the run. Even now, some two months after she had watched Lord Voldemort slump with a peculiar grace to the floor of the Great Hall, food was more of an afterthought than a necessity.

Instead of telling her father about this, she shrugged and settled for a partial truth that was, nonetheless, a truth. "I did a bit of camping this last year and I don't think my appetite's ever recovered," Hermione explained honestly.

"And you young people lead a much more active lifestyle than old duffers like myself," he rejoined.

Hermione thought first of seven years of chasing after Ron and Harry on their various unintentional adventures, and then of the vine-wood wand that she had slid into a pouch next to her favorite Eagle-feather quill for safe keeping and easy access.

"On occasion," she agreed.

"Monica says you'll be at the university next month?" he prompted. "I don't suppose you'll be joining me in the School of Dental Science?"

"I rather think I have the wrong temperament for it," Hermione echoed her familiar argument against following in her father's footsteps. "I prefer an honor's course in Ancient and Medeival History at the School of Historical Studies."

"Honors," Dad repeated, sounding impressed. "You beaver away at your studies then?"

"Constantly," Hermione recalled.

"Good," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "It will be good to have a kindred spirit around until Emilia grows into that habit."

She had no words for that, since it would seem odd to say exactly what was in her heart and her voice didn't want to cooperate with small talk at the moment.

"I suppose you haven't been here long," Dad observed a few minutes later, once they had turned from Victoria Street onto Lygon. "I can't imagine it's much of a joy living in a hotel."

"I was only there a night and a day," Hermione assured him. "It was just a stop-over until I could find a place to call home."

"I did the same sort of thing when I was your age," Dad informed her. "I was a restless sort and spent the first year in hostels and cheap dives across the continent before I came back and settled in at Cambridge."

Every time that she could recall hearing the story, he had added that when she was old enough, he would take her to a few of those old hostels, "as long as your mother never knows." Even now, he stopped speaking for a moment as if he meant to say something else. Hermione looked away so he wouldn't see the pinched look that had taken over her face.

"And your parents?" Dad inquired, changing the subject abruptly. "Are they as airy-fairy as their daughter?"

"You might say that," she recited. "Dad's a barrister and Mum teaches French at a high school."

It was a half-truth that she had carefully practiced. Dad had chosen dental science over the position offered him in a law school and Mum had spent most of her childhood summers with relatives in Chartres.

"You must miss them terribly," he murmured sympathetically.

Her throat went very dry then, but she managed to croak out one sentence as she nodded her head slightly. "More than they will ever know."

They did not speak again until they arrived at the home on Holden Street a few minutes later. Even then, the words were an exchange of offers and expressions of gratitude between two slightly bashful strangers.

"Monica," Dad called as they reached the entryway. "Hermione reckons she could eat the fatted calf. Is dinner ready?"

"Nearly," Mum shouted back from the kitchen. "Your daughter has been redecorating the kitchen again, just because she thinks it's great sport."

They entered to find Mum balancing the baby on her hip and stirring the gravy vigorously. Dad slid one arm around her shoulders and the other around Emilia to relieve Mum of the burden as soon as he gave her a kiss in greeting.

"I always thought this wall would look better in carrot," he commented.

"Yes," Mum sighed, "but at least I kept her away from the beets. There's no telling what she might have done in the name of artistic expression."

Emilia, for her part, chortled mischievously and made a concerted effort to remove Dad's glasses. He ducked away and her pudgy hand landed on his chin with a vaguely damp smack instead.

"Darling child," he chided, "if you're looking for a new plaything, I've got a much better idea. Let me introduce you to your new housemate."

Either Emilia understood the gist of the sentence or she had developed an immediate fixation on the visitor. Her dark eyes peered over Dad's shoulder as if challenging Hermione to dare invade her territory. Dad turned slightly so that they were both facing Hermione and Emilia cocked her head to scrutinize her further. Finally, she cooed a quiet approval and broke into a grin.

"There," Dad said approvingly. "I knew Monica was right to like you. Mili doesn't usually like strangers."

That was, perhaps, because she was the only one in the house able to recognize her own.

"Phone for you."

Hermione jolted abruptly from her sleep, the remnants of a dream slipping away with the shadows as the room came into focus. She had intended to unpack before going to bed, but a short catnap had turned into a genuine lie-in, according to her wristwatch.

"Did they say who it was?" she called.

"No," Mum responded, "but it sounds like a slightly bewildered young man."

Ron, then. She had given the home number to Harry on Mum's instructions so that she wouldn't have to rely on her cellular phone. She only hoped that Ron remembered which end of the phone to use this time around.

She padded into the kitchen, wrapped in her rather tattered pink dressing gown and wearing a patently bleary expression. Mum had left the handset off the hook and Hermione put it to her ear.

"Ron?"

"Of course, 'Mione," Ron said cheerfully. "Blimey, I thought she'd gotten lost on the way."

"She didn't," Hermione responded, "but I didn't expect you to call this early."

"Oh," Ron said, not sounding ashamed at all. "Well, you couldn't expect me to wait a few days to ring you after you chatted Harry up yesterday morning."

"Sorry," Hermione yawned. "You were asleep and I just wanted to make sure you didn't think I'd run off with some Australian Squib on the way here."

"Your concern is very touching," Ron answered with mock severity. "Now, listen up, Hermione, we've got some important matters to discuss."

Which meant that he wanted something from her. Given their last conversation, this was probably a plea for her to spend the holidays for the next decade at the Burrow. Still, Ron hated to be interrupted and she simply shook her head.

"If you're looking for help on your History homework, you're on your own, Won-Won," she teased.

"_Hermione_," Ron echoed reproachfully. "Be serious."

"All right," she sighed. "I'll help with History, but not Charms."

"Actually," Ron interrupted, sounding even more impatient, "I was hoping you could help me with a bit of Muggle Studies."

"You never even _took_ that class," she accused.

"No," Ron agreed, "but I need some help. See, the _Prophet_ wants me to cover a Quidditch match against the Australian National team next week and I haven't the foggiest how to get around Melbourne. I was thinking, if you knew any lovely witches by the name of Granger who might be able to act as tour guide…"

"You're coming?" Hermione blurted, voice squeaking more than she had intended.

"Well, yeah," he sighed. "And Potter and Longbottom thought they might tag along since the term doesn't start until September. I don't suppose you remember either of them, but Harry's turning eighteen next week and I figured we'd save you the cost of Owl Post and pick up his present in person."

His tone had been serious from the beginning of the call, but she could now here nothing but a grin in his voice. It was a welcome change.

"So, you up for a few friendly faces?" he asked.

She didn't even have to think and only waited for him to finish the sentence because she had been told that it was the polite thing to do.

"What day can you be here?" Hermione asked eagerly.

"Well," Ron calculated, "the match is on Tuesday night, so we should probably be there a day or two early to get settled in and…of course…"

There were sounds of a scuffle and Harry's voice was the next sound she heard. "We can be there tomorrow," he informed her. "Is that too early?"


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione hadn't much fancied the airport the first time she visited, but she supposed that was more a product of the long flight than any lack of charm in the place. From the expression on Harry's face, she guessed that he was of the same mind.

Ron, on the other hand, seemed to have inherited Mr. Weasley's unfaltering enthusiasm for what he usually called 'mad Muggle inventions.' Airplanes were simply the most recent addition to the list.

"Well, they've got nothing on Portkeys," he said brightly, "but as far as slow means of travel, they're not bad."

"Certainly more useful than the Knight Bus," Harry added rather groggily, "and more comfortable at that. I might have even slept part of the way over if Ron here hadn't given a good impression of someone who'd taken a Babbling Brew. Kept going on about the in-flight entertainment."

Ron brandished the pair of headphones proudly. "Almost as good for a laugh as Extendable Ears these are," he declared. "Mad, aren't they?"

"Quite," Hermione chuckled, stepping to the curb to flag down a cab. "Now, have you worked out where you'll be staying?"

"Of course," Ron said impatiently. "The _Prophet'_s put us up in some Muggle-proof hotel run by Dumbledore's third cousin on his mother's side. They reckon we can't be trusted in anything more posh."

"As long as they don't take after Aberforth, I don't mind," Harry added.

"Have you run into many wizards here?" Ron pressed on. "I hear there're a few places like Hogsmeade if you know where to look for them and their Quidditch team's supposed to be barking. They believe in a load of superstitious rubbish they learned from the pygmies or something."

"Shh," Hermione chided as a cab pulled up to the curb. "We're among the Muggles and we shouldn't be talking about such things."

"Aw, lighten up, 'Mione," Ron teased. "It's our first real holiday since…well, you know…"

Of course she knew. No one had to remind her of the body count or the number of funerals they'd gone to in the first week alone. She didn't need to think about how many days she had spent under 'mandatory observation' at St. Mungo's once Professor McGonagall had gotten a hold of her. The newly instated Headmistress of Hogwarts had insisted that anyone subjected to an Unforgivable Curse be taken to the hospital wing, but she had come down particularly hard on Harry, Ron and Hermione. They had secretly theorized that she was trying to make up for all of the times she would have bothered them during their seventh year.

As it was, Hermione understood without him having to explain just how badly the three of them needed a real holiday. She had simply postponed hers until after she found a way back to her family.

"Just be careful," Hermione requested. "We don't want to make more trouble than necessary while you're down here."

"And Merlin knows we haven't much experience in making trouble," Harry agreed with a straight face.

"Absolutely," Ron sniggered. "Straight as arrows we are and mild-mannered to boot."

Harry leaned forward to give the address to the driver, in an area of the city where she hadn't been yet. The driver nodded distractedly and pulled out into the mid-morning traffic without further comment.

"_Muffliato,_" she muttered.

Immediately, Ron relaxed and rolled the window far enough down to let in a stiff breeze. Hermione sighed happily and burrowed herself against his side. As usual, he did not protest.

"Do you like your new flat?" Harry asked pointedly.

"As much as expected," Hermione responded, turning her head to look at him. "I've been trying to find a job and it's not exactly in the CBD."

"What sort of job?" Ron asked. "Something respectable, I'd imagine. You're not going to do anything…"

He glanced around furtively as if afraid that the spell was wearing off, and then lowered his voice until she almost had to read his lips in order to understand him.

"_Muggle_, are you?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione snorted, pulling away. "You make it sound as if I'm doing something indecent."

"Well, it's not our sort of thing," he said bracingly, turning slightly red, "and I don't want you doing anything too dangerous. You never know with Muggles."

" If you hadn't noticed," Hermione said easily, more amused than offended by his usual close-minded attitude towards the non-magic world, "my parents have been doing respectable Muggle jobs since before I was born. I don't think there's any harm in that."

"Yes," Harry interjected, "but you're forgetting that there are many non-Muggle organizations in this area that could put you to work. Muggle Relations. The Department of International Cooperation…"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I'd have to owl Percy on a daily baiss."

"Well, all right, not that," Harry conceded, "but you

"You could be the Australian Rita Skeeter," Ron suggested in a lighter tone. "Write a best-selling tell-all expose about your wild nights with Harry Potter."

Hermione's first reaction was to hex him for suggesting such a thing, but Harry was looking highly amused at the prospect.

"Wild nights, eh?" Harry answered.

"I hope you don't mind the smell of sick," Hermione retorted delicately, "because if either of you even _think_ about continuing that line of thought, you'll be covered in it."

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Harry teased. "We did have some pretty crazy times in those woods."

"Well," Hermione surmised, "there was that one with the fox that decided to share our tent…"

"And the time I let you try your hand at poker," Harry agreed.

"And the time the chipmunk who kept nicking our food got stuck in your handbag," Ron concluded with a braying kind of chortle that she had thoroughly missed.

She shot him a quick look and allowed herself a smile. "We'll just not mention anything that went on in Wales, shall we?"

"We could sell it under the title of 'I Spent Two Hundred Exciting Nights With the Boy Who Lived,'" Ron explained. "It's not a catchy headline, but I think Witch Weekly readers would call it a page-turner. We'd sell millions of copies at seven sickles a piece. If that goes well, we can have the _illustrated…_"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted sharply, "I think you've been letting him hang around Holey Saint George far too often."

"No," Ron corrected immediately. "That would be Ginny. She's been keeping things up to speed at Wheezes as a kind of summer project. She's a dab hand at bookkeeping and when Harry's not acting the jealous type, she's great for business."

"And it's fairly close to Grimmauld Place," Harry added, "so she can come over whenever she likes."

"Still staying there, are you?" Hermione asked.

He grinned easily. "Well," he said, "it _is_ my house and really the place isn't so bad."

"We've made a game of tricking friends into 'discovering' Mrs. Black," Ron added. "You should have seen Neville's face. We had just asked him to open the 'window' behind the curtains."

"That's cruel," Hermione accused while fighting a grin of her own.

"It's entertainment," Ron corrected, "and God knows we could all use a good laugh sometimes."

"Doesn't it bother Kreacher, though?" she challenged.

"We only do it once in a while," Harry assured her. "Kreacher's spent more time in other parts of the house these days, so he usually mutters something about 'mischief-makers troubling my poor Mistress,' but we haven't heard him call anyone a Mudblood in days."

"And his cooking's improved," Ron said cheerfully. "He's got nothing on Mum, but it saves us trips to the Burrow when we don't want to run into Perce."

On other occasions, Hermione would have rolled her eyes and commiserated about Percy Weasley's less-than-admirable tendencies. Given the events surrounding Lord Voldemort's fall and Percy's haphazard reconciliation, she wouldn't have expected this much animosity from his brother.

"You still haven't forgiven him, then?" she stammered.

"Oh, I've forgiven him for what he did over the last couple of years," Ron said, waving a dismissive hand, "but he's still a pompous little prat and _that'_s not something I take lightly."

That made more sense. Before she could comment any further, Harry perked up and the cab slowed almost to a stop.

"Looks like we're here," he said brightly.

Hermione immediately muttered, "_Finite Incantatem," _and the cabbie called out the fare as if he hadn't been puzzled by three adults sitting in silence for the duration of the ride. Harry handed over the appropriate amount and Ron squirmed far enough away from her so that he could open the door. A moment later, he turned to help her out of the cab and they stepped into the sunlight.

As expected, there were no signs of a hotel, magic or otherwise, to be found. To her left was a bookshop and to the right was a dingy-looking hair salon. Her mind immediately went to the _Fidelius_ charm, wondering what had inspired the need for such protection. Ron, on the other hand, unloaded his suitcase from the trunk and headed straight for the salon.

"You'd think they would make it something like the Leaky Cauldron or such, but the owner is a Muggle-born witch married to her childhood sweetheart," Ron called over his shoulder. "She apparently feels more comfortable with this sort of front."

Indeed, Hermione's first instinct upon entering was to ask if the owner were related to Tonks. The young woman's hair was twisted into an elegant braid, but the effect was rather ruined by the fact that her hair was lime green, fuchsia and turquoise. Upon closer inspection, there were dark-red roots showing, so the chances of her being a Metamorphmagus were close to zero.

"Can I help you?" she asked cheerfully.

"My Great-Aunt Sophie recommended this place," Harry informed her. "Do you have any openings on Thursday next?"

Apparently, this was a code, since Harry had neither a Great-Aunt Sophie nor plans to stay here longer than a few days. The woman gestured to a staircase to the left with a smile.

"Go talk to Nellie," she suggested. "She'll be able to help you with that."

If the patrons of the salon thought it odd that two young men should bring suitcases to this sort of establishment, they didn't say anything. Hermione led the way up the staircase to a closed door and knocked three times.

Immediately, the door swung open to reveal a well-furbished hotel lobby. It was no Ritz-Carlton, but it was certainly more comfortable than she'd have expected from a Dumbledore. Harry paused next to a large, squashy armchair and got a peculiar kind of smile on his face. A moment later, the smile was gone and he followed Ron to the front desk.

"The reservation's under Weasley," Ron introduced himself. "A double room on any non-hexing floor."

"Yes, sir," the man said cheerfully. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"Not at all," Ron replied. "How far is it to the Quidditch stadium?"

"Two Floo grates and half a block," he explained. "Will you require a Waking Charm?"

"Not necessary," Ron said.

"Very well, then, sir," the proprietor said, handing over the old-fashioned keys. "I shall levitate your luggage there immediately and if there is anything that you require, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thanks."

Hermione nodded towards the small restaurant that adjoined the lobby. "How about you two get yourselves unpacked and I'll see about some carry-out?"

Ron grinned brightly before turning to kiss her quickly on the mouth. "Brilliant," he commended her. "We'll see you upstairs?"

She nodded. "I'll be straight up as soon as I've found something edible in this place."

* * *

_The important thing seemed to be that she was still alive. At least, that's what she gathered from the fact that her heart was hammering against her ribcage. That might have been an illusion, since she had not been able to stop shaking since the first time Bellatrix unleashed the Cruciatus curse._

_Hermione's feet hit the solid ground a moment before salt air flooded her nostrils. Her knees buckled at the impact, but in spite of her instinctive attempts to straighten up, her slump continued until she was crumpled on the ground. Immediately, Ron's arms found her again, gathering her against his chest._

_She was dimly aware of shouts and screams. They might have been hers, but she could not tell. It seemed impossible that her throat could endure more screams, since it was raw with her pain and her tears. A moment later, she heard Bill shout "_Lumos" _and the lawn of Shell Cottage flooded with light._

"_My god," he blurted. "Get her inside!"_

_Ron, obviously thinking that she was unconscious, hauled her upright and moved to sweep her off her feet. She swayed unsteadily for a moment against him, then collapsed on her knees once more, retching._

"_Fleur…"_

"_I am 'ere," Bill's wife said, slightly out of breath as she hurried out of the house. "Ees it…"_

_Empty of everything but pain and worry over Harry's whereabouts, Hermione slumped backwards into Ron's waiting arms._

"_Malfoys," Ron panted. "It was Malfoy's Mum and her mad sister. I don't know if they did anything else to her…"_

_His hand touched the light gouge on her neck as if he could fix it with his touch. She turned herself in to his embrace until she rested, trembling against his chest._

"_Harry's coming," Ron said hopefully. "If nothing went wrong…"_

"_Stay here for Harry," Bill barked at Ron. "We'll get her taken care of."_

_She cried out as Ron released her into his brother's arms, but a moment later, Fleur touched her forehead lightly and the shaking seemed to subside. Undoubtedly a gift from her veela grandmother, Fleur's presence seemed to have a calming influence on many._

"_Keep her talking," he instructed Fleur as they carried her into the sitting room. "She needs to sleep, but I'm not letting her go around the twist in case there's some mind-damage."_

_It was the first that anyone had spoken of damage, of the fact that she could end up just like Neville's parents. She shuddered deeply, prompting Bill to pull a thick blanket over her. He left the room as his wife tucked it around her with an almost maternal air. _

"'_Ermione," Fleur murmured. "Can you 'ear me?"_

"_Y-y-y-y…"_

_Hermione clenched her teeth to stop the stammering, but it did nothing to calm their chattering._

"_Do you remember 'oo deed thees to you?" Fleur asked._

"'_C-c-course," Hermione said. "L-l-lestrange._

"_Was eet the Cruciatus?"_

_At that word, the trembling returned so violently that Hermione could do nothing more than nod jerkily._

"_Deed she do anytheeng else?"_

_Hermione reached for her throat by way of explanation. Fleur sucked in a deep breath, and then let it out in a quiet sigh. _

"'_Ermione," she whispered, "I would like to 'elp you."_

"Granger, I am not as ruthless as the Dark Lord," Bellatrix cooed in a ridiculous voice. "You can play the hero or you can accept my rare gift."

"No," Hermione groaned, more to herself than anyone else.

"I would like to help you," Bellatrix continued. "My gift to you is death. Would you prefer that?"

To die honorably in silence was a cruel mercy, but it was the first time that she had been tempted to ask a favor of a Death Eater.

"_Can't help," Hermione whimpered. "Not even Ron or Harry could…"_

"_I weell if you let me," Fleur promised. "I cannot take thees pain from you, but I can help you forget it until you are well enough to face it."_

_Hermione's hands had rested, clenched, against her chest, but for the first time since arriving here, she unclenched one and slid it into Fleur's palm. It accomplished little, but it was the first time since leaving Malfoy Manor that she had believed that it was possible to heal._


	4. Chapter 4

Mum and Dad had, for as long as Hermione could remember, been of the social sort. She had inherited her curiosity from the both of them. While her tendency prompted her to read half the Hogwarts library, they were endlessly eager to meet new people.

When she had mentioned that she would be returning late the next night due to entertaining out-of-town friends, they insisted on giving the tourists at least an hors d'oeuvre. Harry had commented that perhaps they could help out a bit on the memory matter. Ron screwed up his face and expressed the hope that they weren't going to serve anything _sugar-free_.

Hermione had smiled patiently and left them with a single sentence: "Be here at six and if you are late or attempt to charm any of them, I'll show you the new hex I've been reading about."

They turned up at six on the dot, undoubtedly encouraged by the thought of home-cooked food. Mum let them in the front door, since the maternal side of her refused to let an unfamiliar man into the house without first passing inspection.

Both of them were wearing the England National colors of red and blue, but Ron had at least foregone the practice of painting any part of his body or charming his hair to match his team's colors. Instead, he wore a red t-shirt and blue jeans, while Harry wore a blue jacket over his red t-shirt and a pair of dark trousers. Even as someone who had become accustomed to the Wizarding world's sometimes odd fashion sense, Hermione was immensely grateful that they had made such an effort.

"Mrs. Wilkins," Hermione said, "these are two friends of mine from school. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley."

"Hello," Ron said.

"Pleased to meet you," Harry added.

"A pleasure," Mum said graciously. "Please come in."

It felt unsurprisingly odd introducing her parents with such formality to the friends that they had seen frequently over the years. Harry and Ron accepted the invitation and she watched them do a quick scan of the living room, looking out for any sign that she had ever been here. After a moment, they turned their attention back to their hosts, Harry with a straight face and Ron looking slightly disgruntled at not having found anything.

"Wendell will be joining us in a moment," Mum explained. "Let's have a seat, shall we?"

True to her words, Dad emerged from the study a moment later. He immediately broke into a grin and crossed the room to greet his new victims.

"Wendell Wilkins," he introduced himself. "I understand you're friends of our favorite tenant?"

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed. "We knew Hermione at school."

"Splendid," Dad pronounced. "Monica, are we nearly ready?"

"Yes, dear," Mum called back from the kitchen. "Better get seated before it goes cold."

A few moments later, the pudding had been served and the usual interrogation began.

"So," Dad asked, "what is it that the two of you do?"

"I'm studying to be a teacher," Harry fudged.

"I'm a sportswriter," Ron said. "I'm down here for work and thought we might stop in to see how the resident bookworm was doing.

"I imagine she was a good academic influence on you both," Mum said as if she were quite familiar with the tenant that she had only known for a few days.

"She shamed us into doing well mostly," Ron laughed. "Drove us batty sometimes, but it always turned out we should have listened to her in the first place."

Mum smiled with a slightly wry sparkle in her eye. "Just like our..." Mum began.

She broke off, her smile disappearing behind a slightly bewildered expression. "I can't seem to remember," she murmured. "Wendell, who is that just like?"

"Haven't the slightest," Dad said, helping himself to another serving of pudding. "Sounds mostly like you. I could barely tear you away from your books for a date at first."

"True enough," she sighed, her smile returning more cautiously.

"Hermione was the same way," Ron confided. "It took a full seven years to get her to notice me."

"Nonsense," Hermione scoffed. "I noticed you early enough, but you were an immature prat at times. I had to wait for you to grow up."

"You two are together, then?" Dad asked.

"As much as we can be when on different continents," Ron said, casting a baleful look at Hermione. "I keep hoping she'll listen to me and come study closer to home."

"We'll see," she replied honestly.

A few moments passed while they ate their pudding in silence and Harry and Ron exchanged pointed looks. It was as if they were arguing silently about who would be the one to break their no-charming policy.

"So, I understand you're going to a football match tonight," Dad said before either of them could make up their mind.

"Yes," Harry responded. "Have you had a chance to see one here?"

"Heavens, no," Dad stated. "Monica's never been a fan and the University keeps me fairly swamped with work during the school year. I hear from the chaps after class that the Knights are doing very well this season. Tom Podeljak is making quite an impression."

Ron looked blank for a moment before remembering that, in theory, that was the team whose colors they were sporting tonight. "So I've heard," he said lamely.

"Well, perhaps if they continue to make it an exciting season, we'll watch a match or two on the telly," Mum suggested.

"Well, if you've got to be at the field on North Sunshine by seven, you'd better head out," Dad observed.

"Yes," Harry said quickly, checking his watch. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, thank you for the pudding and the welcome."

"Yeah," Ron agreed enthusiastically, "it was great."

"Well, we'll be sure to see you before you fly out again," Mum encouraged. "Enjoy the match."

They followed Hermione out the door and to her flat, not speaking until they had entered.

"That," Ron pronounced, "was weird."

"It was," Harry concurred. "I think they're on the verge of remembering on their own, but still can't manage it."

"I know," Hermione called back. "Every time we have a conversation, I hear something else that makes me think that they're just one session in the spell damage ward away from coming back to their senses."

"Have you thought about that?" Harry suggested. "We could find out if St. Mungo's has any places down here that they'd recommend."

Hermione paused in pulling on her blue jumper. "I've thought about it," she confessed, "but I'd rather see if I can manage it myself."

"But you're not a Healer," Ron protested. "You might do something wonky with,their brains."

"Wonkier than convincing my Mum that Mili is her first?" Hermione shot back.

"Besides," Harry reasoned, "when has anything Hermione's put her mind to gone wrong?"

Her smile was hid as she pulled the jumper over her head, but she focused on getting ready to leave the house. When she had retrieved her handbag and keys, she shut off the living room lights and ushered the others from her flat.

"I still don't think it's quite safe," Ron added as they walked up Holden Street towards the Apparition point that they had chosen. "I mean, yes, Hermione is seven kinds of brilliant, but she's never done this before."

"It will be enough of a shock for them to find out what I did to them," she explained. "When they come to themselves, I don't want them being ogled like some rare specimen. Our kind think Muggles are peculiar as it is and I'm not sure exposing Mum and Dad to a hospital full of people staring at them would help."

"Good point," Harry said. "Have you got any more ideas on the how and when of reversing the spell?"

"Nothing concrete yet," Hermione stated, "but Ron's dad has put me in contact with some very helpful people at the Accidental Spell Reversal Squad. Professor Flitwick owled with some suggestions that he had found in his collection. If I choose to let the professionals do it, it will be after I know that I can't do anything more for them."

"I guess that makes sense," Ron conceded. "Still, it could take ages. Don't you want them back?"

Her mind focused on her mother's half-bewildered scowl at the dinner table. It had been the closest Mum had come in the time that Hermione had been there to realizing that she should recognize the person sitting across from her.

"_Sounds mostly like you."_

"Of course I do," Hermione murmured, "but I could have gotten someone else to do it a month ago. When they come back, I want it to be on all our terms."


	5. Chapter 5

The game was comparatively long. Hermione was accustomed to the usual Hogwarts game, where Harry was likely to cut the match short for fear of being hexed, jinxed or maimed by a well-meaning house-elf and the stakes weren't as high as the Quidditch World Cup. Even so, it was nearly dawn before the Snitch was caught by the Aussie Seeker and they were able to Floo back to the boys' hotel.

"We're in real trouble," Harry commented around a yawn. "According to the newspaper, the football match didn't even go into overtime."

"That is a problem," Hermione said.

"I know _my_ Mum would have our heads if we turned up this late," Ron mused. "How open-minded are your parents?"

He was speaking of the people who hadn't batted an eyelash at her spending the summers with a houseful of teenage wizards and Ginny.

"Fairly open-minded," she answered. "And Mum will probably assume that it's not her place to set my curfew. I'll have to just say that we lost track of time catching up after we got back."

"That sounds fair enough," Harry agreed. "Want to stop over here for some breakfast?"

"As long as we can smuggle it back to the room, sure."

The witch in charge of the kitchens took one look at their team colors, exhausted expressions and stumbling gaits and announced that she would send up eggs, bacon and her own brew of the Stimulating Solution.

Not wanting to make the entire trip about her predicament, Hermione proposed a game of Exploding Snap. Harry flattened them both in the first hand, Hermione took the next two rounds and Ron vengefully made a comeback around the time that the kindly witch arrived with breakfast.

"How's…" Hermione was about to narrow her question down to Ron's parents, but decided that it would be better to ask an open-ended question and press for details later. "What news from home?"

Ron caught the meaning and grimaced. "Mum's doing all right and Dad has enough sense to know when she needs him to work late and when he needs to skive off the last few hours of work," he commented. "They recruited four new people for his department just after things ended. Mum is trying to help everyone at once and cooking everything that's ever grown, mooed or clucked for fifty kilometers around."

"What about Neville?" she pressed. "I thought you were going to bring him."

"He couldn't," Harry sighed. "Kingsley's keeping the new recruits awfully busy."

"I'm surprised you're not one of them," Hermione answered.

"If he wants me in the Auror Department permanently, he need only say the word," Harry agreed, "but right now it's more of a summer internship."

It went without saying that the 'summer internship' was more of a formality than anything. Harry hadn't stayed at Hogwarts long enough to sit his NEWTs and Kingsley's request for him to work with the Aurors almost as soon as the dust had settled meant that the interim Minister of Magic hadn't cared one whit about his exam scores. He wasn't the only one who would have a say, though, and for now, Harry was more of a junior member of the Department than a new recruit. Neville wasn't any better, but he'd at least turned up at King's Cross for his seventh year.

"Well, they'd better make up their mind soon," Ron added. "You don't want to be another one-year wonder in the Defense Against the Dark Arts post."

Harry nodded. "I'd say we'll invite Neville along next time, but I hope you won't be staying here long."

"I'm fully prepared to stay in Australia until I've completed university," Hermione announced archly.

"But yes, I hope I won't stay here long as well."

"Good," Ron responded firmly. "Crookshanks is pining and Ginny and Luna keep asking after you."

"I'll send you back with letters for all of them," Hermione promised.

"Which reminds me…"

Harry rummaged in his rucksack for a while before producing several thick packets of papers. "From Flitwick," he announced, handing one over. "From Edison at the Ministry…"

"He's in the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad," Hermione explained. "I don't think he'll be much help, since this wasn't accidental at all, but he's eager to help."

"From Hagrid and Grawp," Harry continued. "And from the girls."

The post from Hagrid and his half-brother was particularly odd, since Hagrid had introduced Grawp to the concept of mail while they were gone. There were several pages of letters that were slightly incoherent at best because Hagrid taking dictation from a bilingual giant was something to behold and then Grawp had signed a poster-sized piece of paper with his own name. She could only imagine the size of the crayon required for him to write. She would have to read through the others' letters later.

"So, what's so complicated about all of this, anyway?" Ron asked casually as he loaded a plate with food. "They're not like Lockhart or the Longbottoms, are they?"

"No," Hermione said hastily. "But I couldn't just modify their memories, could I? It had to be complex enough that Death Eaters couldn't Imperius someone like Edison and get through the spell. Think of it like writing on a wall," Hermione added when Ron looked perplexed. "You can paper over it or apply some paint, but there's still a chance that it might be unconvered. It's better to lock it behind a door and put an Imperturbable Charm on it."

"But Voldemort knew how to break through memory charms," Harry recalled. "I heard him say so in our fourth year."

"That's for a simple Obliviate," Hermione said. "He could have gotten through if he applied himself personally to the problem, but I don't think a Mudblood like me rated that much attention, no matter who my best friend was. Tracking down my parents when Harry Potter was on the run would have been a low priority even if he had bothered to go looking for them."

She had heard stories, though. There were countless stories of anti-Muggle attacks that had been carried out while Thicknesse was in power and too many of them had happened in her area. While none of them had been carried out in her estate, there was a good chance that the Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers had been trying to scare her parents out of hiding.

"But couldn't someone have tried _Finite Incantatem?" _Ron pressed.

"Tonks helped me find a charm that protected them from that," Hermione said. "It's not as complex as the Fidelius Charm, but in order to lift the enchantments, a witch or wizard would have heard the instructions directly from me or Tonks."

They were silent for a long minute. Ron and Harry had even stopped chewing so that the only noises in the room were the hiss of the Breeze Charm that served as air conditioning and their breathing. Finally, Harry set down his fork and fixed her with a mirthless look.

"You expected Tonks to outlive you," he said quietly.

"I never doubted it," Hermione replied, her throat thick. "I sort of took it for granted that no matter what happened to me, there would be others to carry on the fight. Remus and Tonks, you and Ron…"

His expression became unreadable, but he suddenly looked much older than his seventeen years. "I always figured that it might be me who died first," he said.

At some point during their travels, she suspected that all of them had considered that possibility. They had known beyond a shadow of a doubt that Voldemort would have to fall, but Hermione had thought too many times of who might perish before that happened. She had wondered how many friends she could stand to lose before she would wish for death herself.

"I always figured we would stand between him and you," Ron added.

For a moment, she remembered the thirteen-year-old boy who had stood up to a mass murderer named Sirius Black and declared that Black would have to go through both of them to get to Harry. She had agreed immediately with that declaration of loyalty then and she had been willing to keep that promise when it came to Voldemort.

"Enough of that," Harry said abruptly. "It's too early in the day to think like that."

"I'm sorry," she said genuinely. "I've been frustrated."

"You'll get through to them," Harry said confidently. "I feel like they're trying to fight against the charm already and that's got to be a good sign."

"What's next, then?" Ron asked. "You must have those instructions written down around here."

"I have the charms written down," Hermione said. "I didn't want a steb-by-step guide to interrogating my Mum laying around. So now I have to figure out the best way to strip away the charms."

"We're here until Sunday," Ron interjected. "Put us in front of a stack of books and we're bound to find _something _by then."

"No," she insisted. "This is supposed to be a vacation."

"We're here to bring you cheer," Harry said as stalwartly as his friend. "If it takes half the Hogwarts library to do that, I don't mind one bit."


End file.
